


A Logical Arrangement

by scifishipper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Communication Failure, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Romance, Sherlock Being an Idiot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Spoilers through S2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:35:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifishipper/pseuds/scifishipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Molly Hooper loses her work visa and goes back to America, she never suspects that Sherlock will come looking for her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Logical Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Unconventional Courtship challenge and inspired by the Harlequin Select romance novel [Married to a Billionaire](http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/bought-by-a-billionaire-kay-thorpe/1100382662) by Kay Thorpe. To fit the synopsis, I've made Molly an American. Everything else is canon-compliant. Set post-Reichenbach.

Molly perched on the edge of a green fabric chair in her living room, fingers pulling at a loose thread on the edge of her sweater. Her attention was focused on the lips of Mycroft Holmes as he spoke to her. He had appeared at her door only moments before and she had rushed to ask him in, seating him in the nicest chair in her small flat. It seemed dirty against his fine overcoat and pale skin.   
  
“We appreciate what you’ve done for my brother. I can assure you that he is safe, for the moment, although I suspect that he has not properly thanked you.” Mycroft said, a pleasant smile on his face.  
  
“Uh…that’s okay. He needed my help.” Molly met his eyes for just a moment before letting her gaze glint off his tie and the long fingers he has wrapped around the curved edge of his umbrella. She’d helped Sherlock fake his death because she loved him and she’d do it again, even if it meant she’d lose her job and her work visa all over again.  
  
“Indeed. There is the matter of your position at St. Barthlomew’s and your work visa. Those should pose little problem in repairing.” Mycroft give her a dutiful expression and she blinked as her brain caught up to his words.  
  
“What? Oh, no. That’s okay. I don’t need it…I mean, thank you. I’m…” Molly hadn’t made her decision yet, but in that moment, she just wanted Mycroft Holmes to leave her flat. “I’m going back to America,” she blurted.  
  
Mycroft Holmes raised one brow and gave a flat smile. “I see. Well, then Ms. Hooper, I shall leave you with my gratitude.” Mycroft rose and tilted his head to the side.   
  
Molly also stood, soothing her skirt like a schoolgirl. He towered over her, much the same height as his brother but without the striking features. His intellect was far more dangerous than Sherlock’s, with the power he was rumored to have. She suppressed a bit of fear running along her spine.   
  
“Yes, um, thank you,” she stammered, shifting from one foot to the other, smiling too brightly as Mycroft moved to leave. She scurried around him to open the door, kicking his umbrella with her toe, feeling very much a child underfoot. “Yes, thank you,” she repeated and hit herself with the opening door.  
  
Mycroft just nodded, face impassive. “Ms. Hooper,” he said, and stepped past her and into the darkened hall. His figure disappeared around the corner and a moment later she felt the pressure of the air change when he left the building. It was only then that she remembered to breathe.  
  
She was going home.  
  
****  
  
Margaret Wright’s body had been found in roadside ditch, less than a kilometer from her home, dressed in her nightclothes. Lestrade, of course, saw nothing of the crime, only the most obvious elements that were intentionally misleading. For three days, the woman’s family had complained to him, begging for the now-redeemed Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, to solve the case. Having been back in London for less than four days, Sherlock was already bored and needed something to distract him from the smoking habit he’d resumed as he destroyed Moriarty’s criminal network. It would surely take less than a day to solve, but case of Mrs. Wright would do nicely for now.  
  
Sherlock strode into the front doors of St. Bart’s, his mind cataloguing what he’d heard from Lestrade (fifty-eight year old grandmother dead from a blow to the head) and the witness. Ah yes, the witness, a retired lorry driver, explaining how he’d seen Mrs. Wright walking her terrier at quarter past eight. Sherlock smiled to himself. Improbable, he thought, remembering three “Happy Retirement” cards on her mantle, a discarded knee brace in the closet, and two  specially designed ice packs for the brace in the freezer. Also on the refrigerator, a yellowed newspaper article, dated April, 2003, showing a younger and uniformed Mrs. Wright receiving a commendation for reuniting a child lost with her parents. She’d worked for the TfL for more than twenty years and had retired early due to her injury. Sherlock snorted at the stupidity of the killer; how could anyone believe she’d walk her dog farther than the side door when her yard reeked of dog urine? No, Mrs. Wright had been killed in her home and had been moved. The faint dragging marks near the side door confirmed it.  
  
Sherlock bounded through door at the bottom of the stairwell near the morgue, the smell of disenfectant in the air. Ah…it was good to be back. Sherlock was jovial, pleased to have returned to his flat and to his cases. John, notified weeks ago by Mycroft, had been pleased to see him still alive and the two had briefly celebrated with dinner at Angelo’s. Now, with his life resumed, Sherlock was eager to examine Mrs. Wright’s body. He was sure he’d find what he was looking for.  
  
“Can I help you?” A man’s voice came from the computer station as Sherlock entered the morgue.  
  
“Where’s Molly?” Sherlock glanced around, saw the absence of Molly’s cat-themed calendar, the fuzzy two-headed bobble toy she’d suctioned to her computer monitor, and an overly neat desk that could not belong to slightly disheveled Molly Hooper. Something was amiss.  
  
“Dr. Hooper doesn’t work here anymore. I’m Dr. Branch. Can I help you?” The man approached, ruddy complexion indicating too much drink. Not enough at the moment to affect motor skills, as his hands were still and his eyes clear. Yellow stains between his fingers and the smell of mint on his breath pegged him as a smoker, maybe even drinking on the job.   
  
“Why not? What happened to her?” Sherlock frowned, unable to reason why Molly would not be where he’d left her.  
  
“She got sacked is what I heard. I don’t know why and don’t want to go spreading rumors.”   
  
Sherlock noted the crumbs on his tie, the dark stain from spilled coffee on his pants. This man was obviously not careful and Sherlock wondered if he’d contaminated all of his autopsies with bits of croissant. He was an unacceptable replacement and would not do at all.  
  
“Indeed,” Sherlock muttered, directing his gaze to the refrigeration units. “Now, get me the body of Mrs. Margaret Wright. I need to see it now.”   
  
****  
  
Molly Hooper blew a stray hair off her face as she picked up a box of books, hiking it onto her to pull open the blue wooden and glass door of The Wise Reader, her family’s small bookstore. The bell jingled, announcing her fourth trip inside from the curb where the delivery man had left the books.   
  
The shop, as always, smelled like new books, coffee, and cinnamon, her mother’s favorite scent. Pumpkin cookies and mulled cider “tea” were available year-round, just because her mother loved how they made the shop smell. Molly’s parents had added the small café, with a few overstuffed chairs and two tables, back in the nineties when the coffeehouse boom made it a necessity to stay in business. Since then, Elaine had kept it fresh with seasonal teas and a few choice coffees. Even now, as the business was about to close, her mother kept the cookie tin full and the mulled cider brewing in a special stove behind the counter.   
  
Molly carried the box past the café and through the narrow aisles of travel, art, and leisure books toward the back room behind the cash register. With a sigh, she dropped it onto the floor and wiped her damp brow. This was the last order they’d receive before they would close their doors for good.   
  
Purchased by her grandfather in the nineteen seventies, The Wise Reader had endured the Cold War and survived the internet e-book revolution, only to be laid bare by a greedy land developer who was kicking out half the block in favor of a food court and a gym. Molly grimaced, swallowing away the imagined taste of hamburger grease, cheap Chinese food, and dirty socks. It made her stomach turn.  
  
“Molly, dear,” her mother called from the cash register, “Where’s the invoice for that delivery? Do you mind double-checking it? Leo’s coming around with the signs and I have to help him in the door.”  
  
“No, I don’t mind. I’ll do it now.” Molly looked around, scanning the cluttered desk where her mother had kept the business running since her father’s death four years before.   
  
Molly spotted the invoice and plopped down on a small stool to begin checking the contents of the boxes against the invoice. At the sound of the bell ringing again, she spotted her mother rushing to the door, her brown tweed skirt swishing as she greeted her older brother Leo, his arms laden with two oversized plastic signs. In bold letters, the signs declared “going out of business sale” and Molly averted her eyes. It was too strange to imagine not coming home to the shop. If it were coming home at all anymore.  
  
This place, so familiar to her as she grew up, seemed oddly claustrophobic, the tiny dark room behind the register, the dust that inevitably coated everything. Not like the cool pristine morgue where she tended the dead. Where she’d last seen—  
  
No. She vowed not to think of him. He was gone, off to destroy Moriarty’s network and keep John and Mrs. Hudson safe. She’d done what she had to do for him and now she was home. Yes. This was home.   
  
With resolve, Molly stood, leaving the invoice behind to greet her brother and put the image of dark curly hair and a purposeful stride out of her mind.  _What would I need from you?_    
  
_Nothing. I don_ _’t know._  
  
Stop it, Molly. You’ve served your purpose.  
  
****  
  
The street outside 221B bustled with rush-hour traffic and the sounds of people ending their work days to return to their boring lives. Sherlock, on the other hand, was thinking. The case of Margaret Wright had long been solved, but the strange situation at St. Bart’s had not yet been addressed. It occurred to Sherlock that Molly’s sacking could be related to his faked suicide, but why woudn’t Mycroft have intervened?   
  
It would take only a few hours to find Molly, of course, there were only so many hospitals in London who would hire a disgraced pathologist. He typed a search into his mobile,  _financially troubled hospitals_ , and scrolled through the list, marking those who were likely candidates (in relatively safe neighborhoods with easy Tube access).   
  
Sherlock investigated each in turn, searching want ads (they were always eager to post new notices, but often left posts showing for weeks after the post had been filled). Three possibilities.  
  
“Hey-ho, Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice entered his awareness. His peripheral vision noted movement in the doorway.   
  
He scrolled through each employment listing, reading and cross-referencing with Molly’s likely wage needs, benefits, and urgency of the posting. She might be desperate, but she wasn’t stupid.  
  
“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s torso appeared behind his mobile and he glanced up. Annoying.  
  
“Can’t you see I am busy?” He clicked through the second listing…interesting.  
  
“The case? Margaret Wright? Her family called me, said you ransacked her kitchen. I told you to investigate, not cause an incident.” Lestrade’s tone was irritating.  
  
“Albert Hughes killed Mrs. Wright, obviously.” The second listing revealed considerable urgency. Sherlock cross-referenced recent news reports about the hospital in question.  
  
“Obviously? We cleared him. He has an alibi.”   
  
“He’s lying.” The screen flickered as the data scrolled by. Whipps Cross University Hospital was running a multi-million pound deficit and had abandoned plans for expansion.  
  
“Sherlock… Give us a second, mate.” Lestrade’s tone had become even more annoying and Sherlock dropped his mobile into his lap and tapped impatiently on the arm of the chair.  
  
“Trained monkeys could have figured out this case, Lestrade. Barely worth my effort. Mrs. Wright had recently auditioned for the Great British Bake Off, as evidenced by the production company’s letter inside her favorite cookbook. She was a baker, clearly a good one, or maybe a terribly bad one if she was to be included on the show. Hughes had also auditioned, but was rejected. The two had a row and Hughes hit her in the back of the head with a rolling pin. Very unoriginal.”  
  
“We didn’t find a rolling pin.” Lestrade looked like a hapless lamb.  
  
“Of course not, but if you search Hughes’ kitchen you will find it. Marble, probably white to match Mrs. Wright’s kitchen. I guarantee he’s still using it when he bakes. A prize, as it were.”  
  
“How…”  
  
“Sorghum and rice flour in her head wound along with traces of wheat flour. Mrs Wright specialized in baking organic and gluten free confections and breads and would have never used wheat flour in her kitchen. She’d already taken her evening shower when she was killed and no other traces of flour were found on her body. An inspection of her kitchen revealed no rolling pin and was devoid of wheat flour. By his own report, Hughes uses wheat flour in his confections and was angry to be beaten by a ‘hippie grandmother’.” Sherlock dropped his gaze to the mud on Lestrade’s shoes. “Back from seeing the wife, then…”  
  
“What? How? Nevermind. How do you know about the row?”  
  
Sherlock opened another search on his mobile, pulling up a cached copy of the Great British Bake Off’s website. He scrolled to the comments about the new season’s auditions: “‘That stupid hippie grandmother didn’t deserve to make it to the semi-finals. Did they even taste her pie? Like bloody eating furniture polish.’” Sherlock turned his mobile towards Lestrade. “His comment, made the afternoon of her murder. Deleted but cached. People are so naive.”  
  
“I see. Well, then…” Lestrade shifted on his feet, hands dug into his pocket.  
  
“Will that be all? I really am quite busy.” Sherlock resumed his reading on Whipps Cross University Hospital. Seven unfilled positions. No new positions listed for three weeks — ah, there it was: the Human Resources manager had been sacked three weeks prior for theft.  
  
“Yeah, um, thanks, Sherlock. I’ll be off then.”   
  
Sherlock sensed Lestrade leaving when the obvious occurred to him. “Lestrade!” He bellowed and listened to the man as he came back up the stairs.   
  
“Where is Molly Hooper?” Of course. How could he be stupid? People tell each other things about their lives.  
  
“What? Oh, you don’t know?” Lestrade shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “She lost her work visa because of you, Sherlock, you insensitive git. She went back to America.”  
  
****  
  
The lunch crowd had gone and Molly was clearing the cafe tables and cleaning coffee cups for the afternoon rush. Business was up since they posted the signs two days ago. A fifty percent sale on all books was a deal most readers couldn’t pass up. It would help her mother pay most of her outstanding bills, but she’d still be without an income when the shop closed. Small business owners in America didn’t get a pension safety net, so Molly’d been helping her out with money from her own savings. She hadn’t spent much in London, just a bit of take-out now and then and the usual flat cleaning and cat supplies. She’d saved plenty and it would help for a while.  
  
Molly watched her mother rearrange one of the book displays, saw the tiredness in the roll of her mother’s shoulders and her wrinkled skirt. Her mother was fastidious about her appearance and even now long strands of brown hair escaped her usually neat bun. Losing a husband and the shop all in the span of five years was a lot for anyone to deal with. Despite the difficulties, Molly was proud of her mother’s chipper mood and positive outlook. It inspired her especially now as Molly dealt with her own disappointments.  
  
“Molly, you’re going to wash the stripes right off that cup.” Her mother’s voice intruded into her thoughts.  
  
“What? Oh.” Molly looked down at the cup, realized she’d been lost in thought, and rinsed it under a stream of hot water. She finished up the last of the cups and dried them, casting a glance towards her mother who was watching her from the other end of the counter.  
  
“I’m fine, Mum.” Her mother had asked her several times why she’d returned to America so suddenly, but Molly had been too embarrassed to say that she’d gotten sacked. Worse, that she’d done it for a man who didn’t even love her. Molly shook her head against the thoughts, eager to move past what she’d done and find a new job.   
  
Molly looked around the clean counters. “The cafe’s all sorted then. What else would you like me to do?”   
  
“Take a break, Molly. You’ve been working non-stop since seven this morning. There’s no one here now. I’ll take it for an hour or so. Get yourself some lunch. You’re getting too thin.”  
  
“I’m fine… I’ll make a cup of tea and finish cataloging those last two boxes of books.” Molly wiped her hands on her khakis and tossed her towel into the laundry bag. She grabbed a cup and saucer and stood in front of the tea canisters deciding. When the doorbell jingled, she glanced towards it.  
  
Her fingers went slack and the cup and saucer fell to the tiled floor. “Sherlock?” Molly’s glanced at the cup a second later, catching it in just as it shattered. She stood frozen, hands out in surprise, eyes on Sherlock’s impossible face.   
  
“Molly, are you okay?” Her mother called out and rushed towards her. “Here, let me get the broom.” Molly felt her mother leading her out from behind the counter. “Watch yourself.” She couldn’t take her eyes off of Sherlock.   
  
“Sherlock, what are you…why?” Her mouth went dry. “What are you doing here?”  
  
“Hello, Molly,” he said, his lips bent into a smirk. “You left Great Britain.”  
  
“I, uh, yes. I…St. Bart’s…Well, you must know already.” She wrung her fingers together.   
  
“Yes. You were sacked and you refused my brother’s offer to fix your work visa.” Sherlock pulled at his scarf, unfurling it from around his neck. “It’s too bloody hot in America.”  
  
“I… He didn’t have to help me. I got caught, Sherlock. I knew I was breaking the law.” Molly had said this to herself a thousand times.  _And I_ _’d do it again._  
  
“Yes, but I’ve been cleared and you can be reinstated.”  
  
“At St. Bart’s maybe…but I can’t go back and work in England. I, you know, committed a crime. They won’t have me back, Sherlock.”   
  
Elaine gasped and Molly covered her mouth in surprise. “Oh, god, Mum. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”   
  
“Hello, Mrs. Hooper. I am Sherlock Holmes.” He walked directly over to her and extended his hand as Molly watched wide-eyed.  
  
“Mum, Sherlock is someone I worked with in London. He’s a detective.” Molly watched them shake hands and wanted the ground to swallow her up whole.   
  
“A consulting detective, Molly. Do get it right.” Sherlock gave her mother one of his patient fake smiles and Molly wanted to smack him. He had no idea what she’d been through.  
  
“Sherlock, come with me,” Molly said, and pulled Sherlock by the arm toward the office.  
  
Sherlock shook his arm out of her grip. “Molly, I am quite capable of following you on my own.”  
  
Molly pinned her lips together and waited until he passed into the office before closing the door. She ignored her mother’s shocked expression across the shop.  
  
“What do you need…no. I asked that once and look what happened. What do you want, Sherlock?”  
  
Sherlock spun around in the small room, taking in the thousands of details he alone could process in his mind. “I need you back as St. Bart’s. Your replacement is unsuitable.”  
  
“What? I can’t, Sherlock.”  
  
“Yes, yes, I know. Your visa.” Sherlock fixed his gaze on her face and she swallowed. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was, pale skin, perfect bow lips, eyes that saw everything. Her body responded, shaking inside as she folder her hands tightly together.  
  
“Since you have refused my brother’s assistance, I have come up with a different plan. One that will ensure that you do not have to ever worry about being expelled from the U.K.” He had a clever smile on his face and Molly swallowed.  
  
“What’s…what’s that?” She almost didn’t want to know.  
  
“You will marry me.”  
  
****  
  
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock had returned his hotel room and was pacing the floor. Molly’s reaction had been quite unexpected.  
  
_“Marry you? Are you crazy?” She’d said._  
  
Curious how shocked she’d seemed. He’d been perfectly logical in his argument and still she refused him.   
  
_“Of course not, Molly. It makes perfect sense. Marrying me would allow you to become a British citizen and there would be no future concern about needing to leave the UK or St. Bart’s. I am quite sure I will never want to marry and this seems a suitable solution, does it not?”_  
  
She’d just stared at him with her mouth open.  
  
_“I believe you would find the arrangement satisfactory. You will move into 221B — John is moving out to be with his fiancee, Mary — so, I will need a new flatmate. I trust that you will respect my experiments and assist me on cases when needed. In return, I will provide you with financial support and the security of never having to leave London again.”_  
  
He’d been satisfied that he’d thought of everything in his planning. What he didn’t understand was why she’d become so angry.  
  
_“Move in with you? I—that’s…” And she’d begun shaking her head, eyes filling with tears. “You don’t love me,” she’d said._  
  
Well, of course he didn’t love her. He didn’t love anyone. Well, maybe mother, but that was to be expected.  
  
_“Yes, but you love me, do you not, Molly?”_  
  
He’d stated only the truth, but she’d seemed horrified. Had he been wrong? No. Impossible. She definitely loved him. It was the perfect plan.  
  
_“Get out, Sherlock. Go away and don’t come back!” Molly had yelled at him. “Oh, my god, you are such a horrible man!” Molly had torn open the door and rushed out._  
  
What had he done wrong?   
  
Sherlock continued his pacing, wishing he had his violin to help him think things through. He’d thought of her comfort, made sure she’d be secure both in her citizenship and her finances, and he knew she loved him. She would get to be in his presence daily. It could grate on him, he supposed, but he felt it was worth it. She had helped him after all and, as Lestrade had informed him, he owed her.   
  
_He_ _’d watched Molly run out of the shop, jangling the door bell hard as the door hit a stack of books, knocking them askew. He’d fastened his scarf around his neck and strode out of the office. Her mother, Elaine Hooper, gave him a worried glance, but said nothing as he passed onto the sidewalk. Molly had been nowhere to be seen._  
  
Ah! Of course. How stupid. It was her mother! Molly could not leave her mother. It was plain to him now.   
  
The elder Hooper was losing her business and would require Molly’s emotional and financial support to help her recover. Apparently, the woman had tied up her savings into the small shop and was about to lose everything because she didn’t have the funds to buy the building housing her shop, leaving it prey for a local property developer. With her livelihood gone, it made sense that Molly would feel obligated to help her.   
  
Sherlock flopped down into the overstuffed chair next to the window, satisfied that he’d discovered the reason for Molly’s refusal.   
  
“Well,” he grinned, “this is a problem with a simple-enough solution.”  
  
Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocked and dialed Mycroft.  
  
****  
  
Molly cried as she told her mother the entire story of helping Sherlock and losing her job and visa.   
  
“But why did he follow you here, Molly?” Her mother asked as they finished their dinner. “A man doesn’t travel thousands of miles for someone he doesn’t care about.”  
  
“You don’t know him. He’s awful. He uses people and thinks it’s fine. He wants me back at St. Bart’s so he can just go on with his work. He’s awful. Just awful.” Tears came harder as she remembered all of the time’s he’d insulted her. He barely even liked her. He was crazy to think it could ever work. It would break her heart.  
  
“Oh, Molly, I’m so sorry, love.” Her mother squeezed her fingers, offering support as she cried.   
  
She’d stayed so strong through the humiliating interview with the head of the hospital. News of Sherlock’s suicide had been the talk of London, but it had been Lestrade’s quick thinking that had kept Molly’s lies out of the paper. He’d sussed out the fake suicide when he’d encountered Molly the next day. She’d always been a terrible liar and had begged him not to let the information get out. She knew Sherlock would be killed. In her panic, she’d blurted out her guilt to Lestrade just as her supervisor walked into the morgue. It had been a disaster. Lestrade had helped her convince Dr. Gehry to fire her for theft instead of for falsifying records.   
  
“I just want to forget it. Forget him. Why has he done this?” Molly blew her nose and sniffled. She’d shed enough tears over Sherlock in her short life. She wanted to move on.   
  
“And you’re sure he doesn’t care for you…” Elaine said, raising a brow and leaning back in her chair to appraise her daughter.   
  
“I’m sure, mum. How could you treat someone you love so hurtfully?” Tears threatened to fall again, but Molly stood up and took a deep breath. No more. She reached for a plate. “I’ll clear these away and we can watch some television, okay?” She stacked their dishes and took them into the kitchen, her heart aching.   
  
Later, as she settled in next to her mother to watch a movie, Molly had calmed down, easing herself back into the comfort of being with family. Her mother needed her full attention as the shop closed down. Sherlock had provided distraction enough in her mind.  
  
“Glad I’m home, mum. I’ve missed this.” She touched her mother’s leg, smiling with affection. Her mother gave her hand a squeeze as the opening credits began to roll. They would be all right.  
  
****  
  
Sherlock left his hotel before seven and blinked against the sun peeking through the buildings. It had been wise leave his overcoat in the room, opting instead for a light blazer, a plum-colored shirt and dark trousers. The weather was warmer in what he learned was “upstate New York” than it had been in England. He stuffed his scarf into his pocket. Even in the early morning, the sun had warmed the street to an uncomfortable temperature.   
  
Sherlock walked slowly towards The Wise Reader, feeling quite satisfied that Molly and he would soon be on a flight back to London. He had been gone from his recently re-started experiments for more than three days and was certain that several of his cultures were about to fail.   
  
The bell at the top of the shop door rang as he swung it open. Molly looked up from her crouched position near a bookcase, face surprised and then closed off. Clearly she was still angry. He suppressed a smile, knowing what was to come.  
  
“Good morning, Molly,” Sherlock said. “May I speak to you?” He felt unusually tentative, but thought it best to approach her more gently this time. It was possible that his abruptness had contributed to her anger the day before.  
  
As she stood, he noted her pink jumper, lightweight, with small flowers dotting neckline and wrists. Her pants were better fitting today, rather snug actually, which he found oddly attractive. Curious.  
  
“Yes, um, okay. What do you need?” Molly tugged at her braid, one long plait falling over her shoulder. It made her look like a school girl, instead of the accomplished pathologist he knew her to be.   
  
“I’ve solved our disagreement, Molly. I’ve taken away the reasons why you rejected my proposal. I’ve purchased the building that houses this shop. I trust that will ease your mind enough that you will now return to London with me.” He watched her face as she spoke, observed confusion. Expected.  
  
“You’ve what?” Molly twisted around, looking for someone, her mother likely, at the back of the shop.   
  
“The property developer has moved his business elsewhere, as this block is no longer viable. You can confirm it, if you like. The owner, Mr. Hargrove, seemed relieved to sell the building to me instead of the development company. Rather nasty firm, he said. I think you’ll find my solution quite effective. Your mother can continue to work and you can return with a clear conscience to London.” Sherlock smiled then and watched Molly’s confusion turn to comprehension.  
  
“Just like that? It’s all sorted?” Molly stepped away from him, her face more shocked than he’d predicted.  
  
“Yes, of course. I’ll have to sign the papers, of course, which has to wait until the American banks open in one hour and fifty-one minutes,” Sherlock said with a quick check of his watch. The purchase had been a small matter and had hardly dented his inheritance. It was a worthy investment if he could get his life back the way he wanted it to be.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock!” Molly suddenly leaped towards him and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She pressed herself against him and squeezed him tightly. He returned her embrace, a suitable task, he thought, for a soon-to-be husband. As he did, his face pressed against her hair and he inhaled the scent of honeysuckle and strawberries. In all the years he had known Molly Hooper, he hadn’t noticed how good she smelled.  
  
As if realizing her position, she jerked out of his arms, blushing and fidgeting with her sweater. “Oh, sorry. I’m so happy. I have to ring my mother. And Leo.” Molly was grinning and then rushed quickly away from him to find the phone.   
  
Moments later he heard her excited chatter on the phone and walked towards her, taking in her flushed face, bright eyes and the grateful way she glanced at him. Seeing her happy had the unusual effect of making him feel … happy, as well. Odd, he thought, assessing. It almost felt like the high of solving a case. He made a mental note to consider it further when he had a moment of free time.  
  
****  
  
Elaine Hooper was no Sherlock Holmes. She coudn’t solve crimes or foil a murder plot, but she did know the human heart and could recognize love when she saw it. Sherlock, for all of his coolness, tracked Molly with his eyes, smiling when she smiled, brow creasing when she appeared anxious, face growing stern when she argued briefly with Leo. For all intents and purposes, he’d ignored everyone else in the room to observe his new bride. And, Elaine believed, he was not even aware he was doing it.  
  
The ceremony had been lovely, if not brief, with Molly wearing a simple pale pink sheath dress with kitten-heel pumps. Elaine’s friend Gina had done Molly’s hair on short notice, pulling into a high bun with loose curled tendrils around her face. Soft makeup had completed the look, transforming her from a older-than-her-years appearing woman, to the young woman she was. She looked beautiful. And happy.  
  
Only a few hours earlier, Molly had protested sadly, eyes worried and filling with tears. It had been Elaine’s instincts about Mr. Holmes that had guided her to encourage her to take the offer of marriage. It was a bold move, to be sure, but she’d always trusted her gut in love. She had yet to be wrong.  
  
_“He’s buying me, mother. It’s a disgrace,” Molly had said, slumping on Elaine’s bed in her slip and bra. “I should have never said yes. I was so excited. But now…it just seems wrong.”_  
  
_“He cares for you, Molly. He can’t say it, but it’s evident. Look at all he’s done. How could that be just a whim?”_  
  
_It was then that Molly burst into tears._ _“He doesn’t love me.” She’d sobbed as Elaine held her._  
  
_“He seems like a complicated man, but the decision is yours. He cares for you, Molly. That much is clear.”_  
  
_“I don’t know.”_  
  
Elaine had left her then, giving her time to think. What had transpired between them to make Molly sure, Elaine did not know.  
  
****  
  
_Three Hours Earlier_  
  
Molly found Sherlock at his hotel, two blocks from the book store. It was a well-known inn with only ten rooms, each furnished in a different European style. Unsurprisingly, he was staying in the London room.  
  
She’d donned her green overcoat, pulling tightly around an oversized t-shirt and jeans. She still wore her tights and pretty new bra underneath, and her hair was done up in its bun. Her makeup, however, had been ruined by her crying. Now, she didn’t care. She’d made a terrible decision and she needed to let him know.  
  
Molly knocked quietly, almost hoping that he wouldn’t answer, that somehow he’d be on a flight back to London.  
  
He swung open the door and looked at her face. “Molly. What’s happened?”  
  
She was stunned for a moment. He’d changed out of his wool jacket and into a proper suit. Beautifully tailored, dark grey silk with a blue tie the shade of his eyes. Her mouth moved but no sound emerged. He was so handsome it was hard to believe she was about to refuse his proposal again.  
  
Molly was startled as Sherlock pushed past her to scan the hall for others. Finding no one, Sherlock closed the door and Molly nudged just inside the small entryway.  
  
Sherlock scanned her face. “Something’s happened.”  
  
“I…uh. Sherlock…” Molly fidgeted with the trim on her pockets, pulling at loose fibers. She couldn’t look at him. “I can’t do it. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Tears spilled down her cheeks as she raised her eyes to look at him. She couldn’t breathe.  
  
“What did I do? What did I miss?” Sherlock pinched his face between his hands, eyes growing distant as she watched. He blamed himself.  
  
“No, it’s lovely. All of it. The dress, the flowers. My god, the shop. Sherlock…” Her voice caught. How to do you tell the man you love that you won’t marry him? “It’s just…”  
  
“Is it your mother. Has she said something? Shall I speak to her?” He grabbed up his mobile and scrolled through the numbers, his face determined.  
  
“No. She’s fine. I mean, she’s…she likes you, Sherlock.” Molly blinked, clearing tears. She had to finish what she started.  
  
For a long moment, her mouth refused to say the painful truth.   
  
“You don’t love me,” she finally blurted, then covered her mouth with her fingers. “I’m sorry. It’s true.” More tears welled up and she swallowed them away. This had to be done.  
  
“No, I don’t love you, Molly. I won’t lie to you. But…oddly, I feel better when I am around you. Comfortable, I think.” Sherlock looked away from her, thinking, and began to pace.  
  
“But of course, you would want to marry a man who loves you. How could I have missed that? I should have called John. He understands these things.” Sherlock had begun to talk to himself, mostly ignoring Molly as he spoke. “There’s always something. Damnit.” He pounded his fist against his leg.   
  
Watching him fret made her heart ache. She wanted him so much to be happy.  
  
“Sherlock…” She spoke softly, stepping towards him. “Do you…would you…” She swallowed down the fear that was making her heart race. “Could you ever love me?” There she’d asked.  
  
“I don’t know. Sentiments. They don’t make sense to me.” He looked at her plainly, his face anxious, a rare state of confusion on his face. She thought he never looked more beautiful.  
  
“Do you feel better around John? And Mrs. Hudson? Would you miss them if they were gone?” She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Sherlock as he thought about her questions.  
  
“John has been an excellent flatmate and companion. His blog irritates me, but he does keep the bills paid and hasn’t complained about my sleeping, or not sleeping, or the violin at odd hours of the night. Yes, he tolerates me very well.”  
  
“And now that he is leaving you to live with Mary. How does that feel?” Hope sparked inside her for the first time.  
  
“I don’t like it. I need a new flatmate.” Sherlock’s face changed and he began to pace again. Molly watched him, feeling that familiar need to help him navigate the world. She loved him more than was good for her and the thought of him managing alone filled her with worry.  
  
“I’ll marry you, Sherlock.”  
  
His head snapped towards her. “What? Why? I don’t love you.” His eyes were wide.  
  
“Please don’t say that again, Sherlock, or I will change my mind.”  
  
His voice softened when he spoke again, “I don’t want to make you unhappy, Molly.” He stepped closer to her and she stood. Boldly, she took one of his hands between hers. His skin was soft and warm.  
  
Molly let her eyes bear the full weight of what she felt for this man. “You will, Sherlock. Many many times, you will make me unhappy. But I do love you and that will have to be enough for both of us.”

  
****

Despite the fact that he was attending his own wedding reception, Sherlock was bored to death. He sat at his place at the table, fidgeting, and screwing and unscrewing the bolts on the fabric and metal chair, trying to determine how far and how many he could unscrew before the chair went crashing to the floor. He’d calculated his weight, the age of the chair, the quality of the sample bolt he’d removed from the stabilizer bar, along with the functional necessity of each bolt. He bet himself one cigarette that he could calculate the breaking point to within fifteen seconds.  
  
His calculated time was nearing when he glanced toward his new wife across the room and froze. Her expression was much the same as before, sad and without the happiness he’d seen at the ceremony. He paused his experiment and stood, folding the chair and slipping it behind a door, where no unsuspecting guest would use it. Something was amiss.  
  
As he approached, her brother, Leo, got to her first, speaking softly into her ear. She definitely looked sad. He had no idea what to do.  
  
Sherlock moved away and found an empty coat room. He leaned comfortably against the wall and closed his eyes to enter his mind palace. The answer must be somewhere that he’d stored away. He did recall that he’d been to weddings before.  
  
The doors of his mind palace sped by, one by one revealing their manifesto, and were dismissed until he seized upon the correct room:  _Holidays and Celebrations_. He opened the door to the room, annoyed that it grew warmer as he entered. Inside were an array of data about the holidays of the world’s religions with dates, origins, and customs, file after file of information he didn’t need.  
  
Ah ha! There it was.  _American weddings. Movies. Customs._  He scanned the contents and smiled. He’d found it.  
  
The toast.  
  
Sherlock emerged from the coat closet and headed straight for Leo Hooper.  
  
“Leo, I believe it is customary for a male member of the bride’s family to make a toast to the newly married couple. In your position as the eldest and only male member of your family, it falls to you to make the toast.” Sherlock looked at him, waiting for him to agree. I order for his plan to succeed, he had to agree.  
  
“Um, sure. When?” Leo glanced around to find support, but none of his family were near.  
  
“Now would be good.” He waited for Leo to nod and then walked away.  
  
Sherlock strode towards his place at the table, grabbing another chair as Leo whispered in his mother’s ear. Sherlock’s eyes sought out Molly and he waved her over with a welcoming smile. She looked surprised, but took a seat next to him. And as he recalled from the brief film sequence, he took her hand into his lap and waited for the toast to begin.  
  
With a clink of glasses, Sherlock watched Molly’s older brother begin to speak, his words hesitant until he gained more confidence. Sherlock listened absently, filing it away for future reference, although none of the specific content about Molly’s previous boyfriends and childhood seemed particularly important. The data stored in his mind palace indicated it was important to remember.   
  
At some critical point, everyone clapped and raised their glasses towards the two of them. As he had seen, Sherlock stood and retrieved two champagne flutes from the table and handed one to Molly. They toasted their marriage and when the audience began to clap louder, he knew exactly what to do.  
  
Sherlock slid one arm around Molly’s waist and pulled her close, her surprised eyes only inches from his.  
  
“Congratulations, Ms. Hooper-Holmes,” he said, and kissed her soundly.   
  
****  
  
The moment Sherlock’s chair collapsed, Molly knew it was time to leave. Her mother had been a miracle in planning her impromptu reception and had cajoled her friends on the street to offer food and drink to celebrate her only daughter’s wedding. In response to the many questions about Sherlock, Molly had just giggled, allowing people to think she was overwhelmed or nervous. In truth, she was out of her element.   
  
With a brief goodbye to their guests, Sherlock described the events leading to the dramatic end of their presence at the party. “I miscalculated the effect of another guest leaning on the back of the chair. I was two and a half minutes off in my prediction of collapse,” Sherlock rattled off the variables he’d calculated, until he stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. “Oh.” Sherlock produced a silver screw from his pocket and Molly raised a brow. “Damnit. There’s always something.”  
  
Molly shivered a little as they began walking towards Sherlock’s hotel. She told herself it was the chilly night air, but that didn’t explain the twittering nervousness she felt about her wedding night. She didn’t know what to expect, or if she should expect anything at all. It wasn’t even a real marriage.  
  
“So, then, um… That was a nice party,” Molly pulled her wrap tightly around her shoulders as they paused at the entrance to Sherlock’s hotel.   
  
“Yes, it was quite useful. I’ve cataloged several new food preparations, two new manufacturers of women’s shoes, and one new, and revised, calculation on the sturdiness of the construction of a Shanxi Samake folding chair. All in all, a salvageable evening.” Sherlock smiled at her. “Thank you.”   
  
“Um, you’re welcome.” Molly would have been amused if she wasn’t so worn out and uncertain of where they stood. His passionate kiss after the toast had surprised her. Until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to her that sex was a possibility. Now, she was unsure of everything.  
  
“Well, then, I…uh… What are we doing Sherlock?” Molly squeezed her hands together and laughed nervously.   
  
“Doing?” He glanced around, oblivious.  
  
“You know, doing…” Molly made a ridiculous gesture with her hips and then nodded towards the hotel. It was something right out of a comedy and she almost giggled. This whole thing was ridiculous.   
  
Sherlock studied her for a moment and then his eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes. Right. The wedding night.” A flash of uncertainty crossed his face.   
  
“I mean, you don’t have to. I know, I mean, I know this isn’t a real marriage. You don’t have to… It’s fine.” Molly turned away, feeling like a right sex fiend. She gripped her wrap even tighter, wishing she could become one with the topiary.   
  
Molly was startled to feel Sherlock’s hand on her arm. She glanced at his face uncertainly.   
  
“This is not exactly my area, Molly, but I have no objections to sex with you. I find you attractive.”  
  
Molly froze in surprise before she blushed, unable to suppress a goofy smile. Sherlock had criticized her appearance so many times, she had always just assumed the worst. “Oh, okay. Me, too. I mean, I, uh, I think you’re beautiful.” Molly’s eyes widened at her own words and she giggled. “Oh, god, Sherlock, we’re terrible at this.”  
  
“Then practice will be required. Shall we?” Sherlock nearly snapped his heels together as he offered his arm to her.   
  
****  
  
Three hours later, Sherlock emerged from the hotel with his Belstaff pulled high around his ears. His mind was buzzing and scattered and he required nicotine to focus. Walking quickly with his hands deep inside his pockets, he raced to the local drug store for a nicotine patch.   
  
The streets were empty as he walked, the only sound was laughter emerging from a briefly opened tavern door. From its darkened depths, stumbled out a man and a woman, chattering and holding onto each other. The man pressed his companion up against the wall near the door and began to kiss her. Sherlock’s body responded to the couple and his mouth grew dry. He licked his lips, remembered the way Molly tasted, how she felt and moved under his touch. His breath quickened and he glanced back in the direction of the hotel where Molly slept. He wanted to be inside her again.  
  
“Agh,” he groaned to himself, hunching his shoulders to tuck his face deeper into his collar. None of this was supposed to happen. It had been a simple physical transaction, something to ‘seal the deal’ as the saying went. And now…sentiment!  
  
By the time he arrived at the brightly-lit store, the door was locked. His watch revealed one fifteen a.m. and he cursed, pulling at the door uselessly. He pounded hard in frustration, hoping some late-night manager would be on duty. It was useless and he turned and slumped against the glass.   
  
More laughter across the street caught his attention and he straightened, suddenly interested in the two woman and their male companion. They were smoking.  
  
Sherlock sped towards them, his face intent. “Hello,” he said, appearing suddenly in front of them. One of the woman gave a startled gasp and hid herself behind her companions.  
  
“Hey,” the man shouted and puffed out his chest. “Watch it.”   
  
Sherlock ignored the threat. “I notice that you are smoking. Could you spare one?” He stared at the red hot tip of the cigarette between the brunette’s fingers. His mouth watered as he imagined his own.   
  
“Get the fuck out, man,” the dark-haired man shouted.   
  
Sherlock, intent on the cigarette, took a step closer.   
  
“What the fuck,” the man shouted and punched Sherlock one time, hard, right in the face. He stumbled backwards, nearly losing his balance and touched his mouth where he’d been struck.   
  
“Stay away from us or we’ll call the cops,” the smaller of the two women shouted. Her accent vaguely registered as Bostonian.   
  
Disoriented, Sherlock steadied himself against the wall and called out weakly, “No cigarette, then?” His jaw began to ache where he’d been punched and he tasted the hot copper of fresh blood on his tongue. Wonderful.  
  
A moment later, another man emerged from the tavern and Sherlock kept his head down. The man, a construction worker by his boots, the bits of tar in the soles showing his employment as a government road worker, moved a few paces away and lit a cigarette. The smell of the smoke reached Sherlock and he could not stop himself from speaking. “Can I get a cigarette from you? I’m fresh out.” He tapped his chest in a pretend search for a new pack.  
  
The man looked at him and raised a brow. “Looks like you could use one.” He offered his pack, delightfully not low tar, and Sherlock took one with shaking fingers.   
  
“Thanks,” he said, and waited for the man to flick his lighter. The crackling sound of burning tobacco filled Sherlock’s mind with anticipation and he inhaled, filling his lungs with the warm, acrid smoke. My god, had it really been seven months since his last cigarette?   
  
He took another long drag, holding it in his lungs as long as he could, savoring the familiar flavors and sensations. Then with his long exhale he began to feel normal again, free from his body’s need for Molly’s pliant and responsive flesh. Free to think once more.  
  
Sherlock closed his eyes, reveling in the clarity returning to his mind, the sharpness, the tingle of awareness along his skin. Yes, this fixed everything.  
  
****  
  
Molly woke slowly with the sounds of light traffic outside the hotel. Blinking, she glanced around the room, not surprised to find Sherlock gone. He would have been hopelessly bored while she slept.   
  
As she rolled and stretched, Molly’s hair was a hopeless tangle, half covering her eyes with small metal hairpins hanging in disarray around her face. She had been well and properly shagged by her new husband and she buried her face in the soft pillow to stifle a giggle.   
  
Their night together had been nothing like she’d imagined. A tentative Sherlock, his body magnificent and capable, had responded to her touch with openness and curiosity, holding nothing back as she’d explored. He’d asked questions about her likes and dislikes, trying each technique she’d described until she could no longer form coherent words.   
  
He’d seemed thrilled at her pleasure, smiling and laughing with delight as she shuddered and gasped his name. His eyes were lit with passion when finally entered her, groaning against her neck as he moved, his body quickly learning the rhythms that she liked, even taking liberties at teasing her until she begged him to move. He came fast the first time, clutching her body with surprising intensity, and then grew quiet until she queried him.  
  
_“That was unexpected,” he said, propping himself up against the pillows, his face glistening with sweat in the pale street light from the window._  
  
_“It was okay, then?” Molly asked, pulling the sheet over her bare breasts._  
  
_His fingers were steepled under his chin, gaze thoughtful._ _“Interesting. Very interesting.”_  
  
_Sherlock had jumped up then, tossing the blankets aside and rushing into the bathroom. A few moments later, he_ _’d emerged naked, hair and face damp. “I have an experiment, Molly.”_  
  
_“Experiment?” Her eyes grew wide. “What do you mean?”_  
  
_“Trust me?” he asked, eyes gleaming._  
  
_“Um, yes?” She trusted him with her life, but that look in his eye had worried her._  
  
_At her positive response, Sherlock had pounced on the bed, startling her, only to ravish her with a deep and passionate kiss._  
  
What transpired from there still made her blush from her feet to her still swollen lips. My gods, he was a fast learner.  
  
Molly grinned to herself and stretched again, contemplating breakfast and shower. Their flight, she knew, departed mid-afternoon, just enough time to pack a suitcase and say goodbye to her family. Her mother would have to ship the rest of her things to London after she had gone.  
  
With stiff limbs, Molly quickly showered and wrapped a towel around her hair. In the outer room, she heard the door close and her pulse quickened. Sherlock was back.  
  
Checking her appearance in the mirror, she pushed a stray hair out of her face and smiled at her reflection. She felt better than she’d hoped for, the morning after her one-day courtship and subsequent marriage to the world’s only consulting detective.   
  
“Sherlock?” she called, emerging from the bathroom in a fluffy white robe.   
  
“The concierge left us a fruit basket and I’ve brought it in. Of middling quality, but if you are hungry, you should find it adequate.” Sherlock spoke quickly with his back to her, hands busy throwing things into his small suitcase.   
  
“Oh, how nice,” Molly said. She examined the basket with interest, pulling out a strawberry and taking a bite. It was delicious and her stomach suddenly reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in far too long. She gathered a few more and sat on the edge of the bed to watch Sherlock.  
  
“Where’ve you been? Seen anything interesting?” Molly munched on her strawberries.  
  
“This is a small town, Molly. I learned everything I needed to know within two hours of arriving. I prefer London.” Sherlock spun and strode past her. It was then that she noticed the bruise on his jaw.  
  
“What happened?” She stood and crossed to the closet where he was retrieving his suit.  
  
“A row over a cigarette. I assure you I am quite fine.” Sherlock slipped the suit into a hanging bag and zipped it up.  
  
“Let me, see.” She touched his face and he jerked away. “I am quite fine, Molly. It was a small matter.” He moved away from her, dropping the suit carelessly into the suitcase and stuffing it inside. His wedding suit.  
  
“Sherlock, is everything okay?” She stared at his back, mind racing to find the cause of his coldness. The bits of strawberry on her tongue tasted sour.   
  
“I’m thinking, Molly. Please leave me alone.”   
  
She bit back the tears that sprung to her eyes and let the strawberries drop out of her fingers. This, she realized with a hard swallow, was what she’d expected being married to Sherlock would actually be like. He didn’t love her and didn’t want her. It was all a lie.  
  
“Um, okay. I, uh, I have to see Mum and Leo before I go. I’ll just go get ready then…” She pulled at her fuzzy white lapels, closing the garment more snugly over her chest. When Sherlock didn’t respond, she turned and went into the bathroom.   
  
She closed the door and cried.  
  
****  
  
Digital photographs streamed across Sherlock’s screen as he walked to fetch Molly for their flight to London. He paused, shielding the screen from the sun to examine the colorful portrayals of a man’s last moments alive. His face and hands had been badly burned, but his obvious occupation would make determining his identity quite simple. More information about the case appeared in emails from both John and Lestrade, filling in the details he could not determine from the photographs.  
  
Sherlock’s mind whirled and he opened several searches on his mobile as he approached Molly’s shop. He barely registered the bell as it rung overhead and he paused just inside the door.  
  
“Oh, hello, Sherlock. How are you today?” Elaine Hooper greeted him.  
  
He scanned through hundreds of insignia to find the one he was searching for. It would reveal much about the man’s death.  
  
“Yes, hello. Is Molly ready?” He have a perfunctory smile to Elaine and stepped around her to make his way to the cafe. “Coffee, two sugars, please.” His mobile chimed and a text appeared.  
  
    _This would be much easier if you came back to Baker Street._  
  
Sherlock replied.  
  
    _Nonsense. This is a simple case. Even you could figure it out, John. I’ll be returning late tonight._  
  
Satisfied that he’d stopped future texts for a time, he dropped his phone onto the cafe table and glanced around. Molly was nowhere to be seen.  
  
“Here you go, Sherlock. Molly will be here shortly. Before you go, will you try one of my pumpkin cookies?” Elaine said.  
  
Sherlock groaned as another chime rang out.  
  
    _Don’t be a git. The victim has a wife and two small children. Get here quickly._  
  
His lips twisted into an irritated moue.   
  
    _Irrelevant. And check the boot of his car._  
  
Sentiment had never solved a case and it never would. He dropped his mobile back onto the table.“No, thank you.”   
  
“What’s that?” Elaine asked from behind the counter.  
  
“No cookies. I prefer to fly on an empty stomach.”   
  
“All right then, I’ll pack a few and you can have them when you get back to London.”  
  
“Don’t bother. I don’t like pumpkin.”   
  
“Oh, I see. Well, then…” Elaine said and moved towards the back of the store.  
  
Behind him, the bell on the door jingled.  _Finally._    
  
Sherlock turned to see his pathologist coming through the door, her hair slightly disheveled from the wind. Her attire had returned to its usual shapeless state — over-sized khaki pants and a pale green sweater one size too large. To his dismay, his mind promptly supplied an image of Molly’s naked body, firm but small breasts, the attractive curve of her hips. With a frown, Sherlock shunted the image back into his mind palace and firmly slammed the door. He stood and grabbed his mobile. Unacceptable.  
  
“Lestrade has contacted me with a case. We must be on our way.” Sherlock checked the time and glanced at an email from his contact at the docks.  
  
Molly twisted her hands together. “Yes, um, well. I am… I need to stay a bit longer.” She glanced towards her mother and back to his face.   
  
“What do you mean?” She had captured his attention.  
  
“The shop really is in disarray and I should help get it back in order. It’s a lot of work and I hate to leave her in a lurch. You’ll be fine without me.” She spoke quickly.   
  
Sherlock considered her for a moment and then his mobile chimed again. “Yes, that will be fine. I have a case.”  
  
    _Lestrade searched the boot, found a bag with money. £15000._  
  
Sherlock smirked and typed a response.  
  
    _Follow the money to the killer._  
  
He dropped the phone back into his pocket and glanced at Molly. “I’ll be off then. John and Lestrade are expecting me.” Sherlock slipped a hand into his breast pocket and produced airline tickets, handing one to Molly. “Change your ticket to your desired return date. I will see you back in London.”  
  
“Um, okay. See you in a couple of days.” Molly raised up on her tiptoes and planted a light kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “Bye, Sherlock.”   
  
Then she brushed past him and disappeared into the back of the shop. His eyes followed her for a moment until his mobile rang again.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered, and then he pushed open the door and left.  
  
****  
  
Five days later, Molly dragged her heavy suitcase up two flights to her friend Nina’s London flat and wheeled it through the door. “Thank you, Nina, for letting me stay. I had planned to get a hotel, but it’s too early to check in anywhere.” She rolled her suitcase into a corner and dropped her shoulder bag onto the floor with a thud.  
  
Her trip had been harrowing. Her afternoon flight had been oversold and she’d gotten bumped to the red-eye. It was her own fault, of course, because, like a git, she’d traded in her first class ticket for one she could afford on her own. From there everything went south. Delays and the long cross-Atlantic flight had had her sitting in her cramped seat for hours on end until she finally arrived at Heathrow at six-thirty in the morning. She cursed herself and her stupidity and Sherlock most of all. It was his fault that her life was upside down.  
  
Nina, meanwhile, noticed none of it and fluttered excitedly around her, setting up the couch for her unexpected visit. Molly nearly tripped over herself with thanks.  
  
“I’m just glad you’ve come back, Molly. Gehry’s been such wanker since Dr. Branch was sacked. Two sacked pathologists in a row. I thought he was going to have a coronary.”  
  
“That will be only one sacked pathologist,” Molly said and slumped into a soft chair. “I’ll be reinstated in a week’s time. I’ve already talked to Dr. Gehry. Turns out they found the real thief and I can have my job back.”   
  
“Molly! That’s great news. I kept telling people that charge was bollocks. How was your trip to the States anyway? Anything exciting happen?” Nina asked, tossing sheets onto the couch where Molly would be sleeping.  
  
“Um…no, not much. There was this thing with the family book shop, but that got sorted. And then there was this other thing, but it’s all done now. So, no, not really. Just plain old Molly, back in London.”  
  
“You’re happy to be back then, yeah?” Nina asked and then nudged Molly. “That fit lab tech was asking about you the other week. You know, the one with the tattoo. He fancies you, Mols. You should look him up.” Nina giggled and fluffed a sheet over the couch. “He had a girlfriend, but I guess she’s off to a job in France. He’s just jilted and looking for love…”  
  
Molly shook her head. Dating was the last thing in the world she wanted to do. “Maybe next time, Nina. Right now, I just want to sleep.” Molly yawned and melted deeper into the comfortable chair.   
  
“Aw, poor thing. Had a rough go of it? Your flights, I mean?” Nina called out over her shoulder as she disappeared into the bedroom.  
  
“Terrible.” Molly kicked off her shoes and sighed with relief.  
  
Nina returned with a pillow and began stuffing it into a fresh pillow case. “What about your old flat? Has it been let?”  
  
“Yeah, a month ago. I’ll have to find another.” Molly groaned. “Hope it doesn’t take too long.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll get it sorted. Stay as long as you like. I’ll be home from work around six and we can go to the pub, yeah? I want to hear about this shop and that ‘other thing’ you’re being so dodgy about. Tomorrow, I’m going down to Tony’s place in Surrey for a few days, so don’t bother with a hotel, you can have the flat while I’m gone.” Nina fluffed the pillows and added a blanket. Molly was grateful — she had always been a good friend.  
  
“Thank you, Nina. I owe you.” Molly smiled tiredly and yawned again.   
  
Nina surveyed her work and glanced at Molly, her face concerned. “Oh, you poor thing. You’re positively knackered. Off to sleep with you now. I’ve got to get to the hospital and you’ve got to get some rest. I’ll see you tonight. I’m so glad you’re back.”   
  
Molly stood on tired legs and gave her friend a hug. “Bye, Nina. Have a good day.”   
  
As Nina grabbed her bag and headed out the door, Molly dug into her suitcase to pull out her pajamas and toothbrush. As much as she knew she should try to stay awake to help her body adjust to the time change, she just couldn’t. She hadn’t slept in more than a day.   
  
A few minutes later, she tucked herself into the couch and closed her eyes against the bright morning sun. As her mind wound down, jumbled images from the last week played across the insides of her eyelids, the harried flights, her mother face, the shop that almost wasn’t, and, of course, Sherlock. Always Sherlock.  
  
She sighed and pulled the blanket over her head to blot out the light from the windows, to block out what she didn’t want to think of. For five days, she’d managed to put on a bright newlywed face for her mother and brother. But now, it was like London lived and breathed Sherlock Holmes, every sight and sound linked inextricably to his presence in her mind. She couldn’t shake him now, what had happened between them, what he meant to her — how he didn’t want her. She squeezed her eyes closed again, willing away tears that refused to obey. She didn’t want to cry over him any more, but she had no choice. Just like she always thought he would, he had broken her heart.  
  
****  
  
“No, Mrs. Hudson, the sheets must be changed. I’m expecting Molly soon and she cares about those things. You’re a woman, don’t you know this already?” Sherlock bugged his eyes out at his landlady as she finally pulled the old sheets off the bed.  
  
Mrs. Husdon waved him away. “Settle down, Sherlock. I am sure Molly will get herself sorted. She’s really got a mind, you know, moving in to this crazy old place with you. Heads in the freezer, science experiments in the cabinet…”   
  
“Molly is a scientist. She appreciates my experiments. Even promised to tend them for me if I am working on a case.”   
  
Sherlock stormed through this flat, kicking papers and clothing out of the way as he removed lab equipment from the spare cupboard in his bedroom to make room for Molly’s clothes. His flat was certainly big enough for two, but he’d never lived with a woman and had no idea what she might need. He deduced as much as he could from his mind palace, but she’d have to tell him the rest.  
  
With the space cleared, Sherlock arranged his equipment in the corner of the main room, stacking it on a recently emptied bookshelf. The books and magazines were now piled in boxes and stacked near the door. In his boredom, after solving the case of the “Charred Deliveryman,” he’d flipped through them, remembering the ones that proved useful and then tossing them.   
  
“All right, Sherlock. I think you’re set now. The bedroom seems in order, but you might want to take another look in the loo. There seems to be something growing in the medicine cupboard.”  
  
“Xerophilic mold. Molly will understand.” Sherlock flopped down onto his chair and began to scroll through his mobile.  
  
“Ah, Molly arrived at Heathrow two hours ago,” Sherlock announced. “She should arrive momentarily.” Sherlock grinned; his brother had his uses.  
  
“Well, I’m off then. I’ll stop up later and say hello. I am sure Molly will want some time to settle in.”  
  
“Indeed,” he said absently as he scoured the crime reports from the night before. “Nothing…nothing…nothing.” As time passed, Sherlock was in and out of his seat, checking his experiments, devising one new one that would require more supplies, played his violin, and even attempted to read. When too much time had passed without stimulation, he threw the book across the room. Waiting was a wholly irritating activity and his brain was starving. Where was Molly?  
  
Unable to wait, Sherlock jolted out of the chair and stood at the window, watching the taxis roll by. One after the other, taxis stopped and discharged passengers at the corner and none of them were Molly. Soon, he began to pace, and then began checking the daily traffic alerts and the blogs that frequently held complaints about the morning commute. Traffic was normal. Tubes normal.   
  
Oh, the Underground. That could account for her absence. Sherlock checked the tube alerts. Nothing to impede her progress. No, it had been far too long. Something was amiss.  
  
He sent a text.  
  
    _Come here now. I need you._  
  
Sherlock tossed his mobile onto the chair and went to shower.   
  
Thirty minutes later he emerged from his bedroom fully dressed in dark trousers, a deep blue shirt and wool jacket.   
  
“Sherlock, I’m here. What is it? I texted you back.” John came into the flat, breathless.   
  
“Molly is missing,” Sherlock stated flatly as he buttoned his shirtsleeves.  
  
“Molly? Molly who? Molly Hooper? I thought she went back to America.” He looked confused.  
  
“She did and now she’s returned, but she has not arrived.” He tugged at his jacket and righted his collar. “We’re going to find her.”  
  
“Wait, what do you mean, she’s returned. When? Can you slow down, Sherlock, and fill it in for the rest of us?” John crossed his arms over his chest.  
  
“Do pay attention, John. I traveled to the States to retrieve St. Bart’s erroneously sacked pathologist, Molly Hooper, who, for the record, was replaced by an overweight drunkard, now also sacked, thanks to me. In order to secure the return of said pathologist, I purchased small property in upstate New York that houses a bookshop owned by Molly’s mother, once facing eviction and requiring Molly’s attention. With that problem solved and my pathologist free to return to London, there was the small matter of her work visa, now no longer needed, since I have married her. So, John, if you’ve been able to keep up, Molly Hooper, my wife, returned four hours and thirty-six minutes ago to Heathrow Airport and has not yet arrived to this flat. You see the problem.”  
  
“You got married? To Molly?” John crossed the room and sat heavily in his old chair.  
  
Sherlock groaned and raked his fingers through his hair. “Yes, John. Yes. What is so hard to understand?”  
  
For a long moment John stared at him, mouth open, then closed, and then he shook his head. Shortly thereafter, he began to laugh.  
  
“Oh, Sherlock. You’re in love.” John doubled over with laughter and Sherlock froze.  
  
“What are you talking about? I returned from abroad to find an unacceptable situation. I require a suitable pathologist at St. Bart’s. Molly is the best one I have found. So, I retrieved her.” It was all perfectly logical.  
  
“Sherlock. Really? You traveled six thousand kilometers, purchased property, and became legally married so you could have a fresh supply of body parts from the morgue. Do you hear yourself?”  
  
Sherlock pinched his lips together and stared at John.  
  
“Hold on a second. Tell me what happened after the wedding. Why did you come back to London without Molly?” John still had that infuriating smirk on his face and Sherlock wanted to hit him.   
  
“John…”  
  
“No, seriously, I am trying to help you find Molly. Why did you travel separately?”  
  
“Her family required her help to repair the damage caused by nearly losing the shop.” He answered, recalling the conversation the morning he left New York.  
  
“And how did she seem? Molly, that is.”  
  
“She was fine. We’d spent the night together, I’d gotten in a row over a cigarette, I’d packed my suitcase, and then met her to go to the airport. It was then that she informed me of her need to stay.”  
  
“You got into a row over a cigarette? I thought you’d swore them off?”  
  
“I left the hotel to find nicotine patches because I needed to think. Being a small town, the shop was closed and I approached three people who were smoking to ask for a cigarette. I startled them and one of them punched me in the jaw. They left the scene and another man came out of the pub. I took a cigarette from him.”  
  
“Okay…then what happened?”   
  
Sherlock sat across from John and relaxed, letting his mind reconstruct what he’d marked for deletion. “I smoked the cigarette and walked the perimeter of the city to clear my mind. When I returned to the hotel, Molly was in the shower. We interacted and she left.”  
  
“Interacted?”   
  
“Oh!” Sherlock jolted in his chair, mind focusing on the small scene in the room. “I said, ‘I’m thinking, Molly. Please leave me alone.’” He swung his gaze to John. “Not good?”  
  
“A bit not good, yeah” John agreed. “She’s not missing, Sherlock. She’s avoiding you.”  
  
****  
  
Molly woke several hours later, her head feeling like thick wool had filled her skull. The room had dimmed as an afternoon rain moved over the city, and Molly began to feel at home again. With a yawn, she stretched and immediately winced, her neck protesting the movement until she slowly tipped and rotated her head to ease out the stiff muscles.   
  
After another long stretch, she padded to the kitchen to put on the kettle. Nina, in her sweetness, had left her a note about breakfast bars in the cupboard. She found them and set one aside.  
  
As her tea brewed, Molly washed her face and rinsed out her mouth. A quick glance in the mirror showed swollen and red eyes, but she had to admit to feeling much better after the long cry. Sherlock would undoubtedly be a force in her life as long as she worked at St. Bart’s and she was going to have to find a way to handle it.   
  
Molly poured her tea and sat at the table to have her breakfast bar and to read yesterday’s paper. She flipped to the ‘flats to let’ section and grabbed a nearby pen. The sooner she could find a flat, the better she would feel.   
  
Flat after flat was too expensive or too far away to be practical for her needs. Over and over, her eyes lingered on the listing for 221B Baker Street. Not Sherlock’s flat, but the other one, the basement flat Mrs. Hudson had been trying to let for the past couple of years. It was painful to see it there, in black and white, almost calling to her, showing her what she had missed. What she’d tasted and then had taken away.   
  
Molly tossed the paper aside and cleared away her dishes, washing them quickly in the sink. She would shower and call the numbers she’d circled. Before she knew it, she’d be settled and this would be behind her. Molly nodded, trying to reinforce her thoughts. She’d seen her mother do it a thousand times. She could do it, too.   
  
Stripping the couch clear of the sheets, Molly folded them into a pile and set them on the side table. She opened her suitcase and pulled out the clothes she’d need for the day and stacked them on the chair. One foot in front of the other, Molly. Just keep going.  
  
She gathered up her things and moved towards the shower when a thundering noise sounded in the hallway. “Molly? Molly are you in there?” She shrieked at the loud pounding on the door and clutched her clothes to her chest. The door handle rattled and Molly stepped back, afraid the door would come crashing in.   
  
“Molly, it’s Sherlock. Open the door.” He pounded harder and Molly ran to the door and yanked it open.  
  
“Sherlock? How did you find me?”   
  
He rushed in and looked around. “I am a consulting detective, Molly. It was easy enough. Once I knew where to look.”  
  
“How…How did you know I’d arrived back in London?” Molly twisted her clothes in her fingers.  
  
“I have told you before, my brother is the British Government. I was not exaggerating,” he said, examining every room in the flat before coming to stop abruptly in front of her.  
  
“Why aren’t you at Baker Street?” He loomed over her, face intent.   
  
“I…I needed some time, Sherlock. You know, it wasn’t...isn’t working. You don’t… I am seeing flats today. To live on my own.”  
  
“Nonsense. We had an agreement.”  
  
“But…” Molly felt her control slipping away as Sherlock pressured her.  
  
“But nothing. The agreement was that I would marry you so you could stay in London and you would live with me. Why are you altering our arrangement?”  
  
“Oh.” Molly sat on the sofa with a thump. “I thought… I - I don’t know.” She clenched her hands together tightly. Her whole body felt flushed and wobbly.  
  
“What did you think, Molly, the morning after when I told you to go away?” Sherlock’s voice had lowered and she glanced up at him, saw a softened expression and looked away. She didn’t understand any of this.  
  
Tears were once again stinging her eyes. “I don’t want to be rejected over and over again, Sherlock.” She looked at him and watched as he sat across from her, his face concerned.  
  
“I hurt you.”  
  
“I thought it would be okay because you said you cared about me, that I could be stronger. I’m  just not. I thought that night… I thought you felt something. You didn’t.”  
  
“Sentiment.”  
  
She nodded and swiped tears off her cheeks. He hated sentiment, hated the banality of it, the stupid things it made people do.   
  
“Sentiment is dangerous, Molly.” His voice was rough now and she stared at him. “I am not a man who scares easily. My life, my mortality, all could be gone in an instant and I simply would not know. But your life… Being connected to me, feeling sentiment for you. It is dangerous. If anything were to happen to you.” Sherlock stood suddenly, clenching his fists and he began to pace.   
  
“It was meant to be logical, Molly. Your return to St. Bart’s, my need for a good pathologist, fresh body parts. But what you did for me, that you lost your job, that you left... It was something I couldn’t stand. I had to fix it.” He started to become more agitated and Molly rose off the sofa to reach out to him.  
  
“Sherlock, I am here. I am right here and you’ve fixed it. I’ll give you what you need at St. Bart’s. I promised that.” She stood in front of him to stop his pacing.   
  
“I want the rest of it. The flat and the tending to my experiments. I have xerophilic mold growing in the loo. I want to show it to you. I’ve cleared things away for yours to fit… Molly, I don’t know what you need, but I need  _you_.” His voice wavered and she broke, rushing into his arms to kiss him hard on the mouth.   
  
“Say it again, Sherlock.” She dug her fingers into his hair and hovered her lips just over his.  
  
“I need you, Molly Hooper.” He pulled her body against his as she kissed him, slipping his tongue into her mouth, his hands roaming her body. She was lost in his kiss, her fingers stripping his clothes of their own accord. She wanted flesh touching flesh, the taste of his skin, the brush of his thighs against hers.   
  
They were frantic in their lovemaking, laid out on the hurriedly scattered sheet on the couch, until they were spent and tangled in each other's arms.    
  
Molly cherished him, loved him, and trusted him. Her stupid, naive, brilliant consulting detective, the love of her life, Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
